The Book of Fate (40 page)
“I don’t want my picture in the paper. Or my name,” Violet whispered, tugging her bangs over the fleshy white scar.
“I’d never do that,” Lisbeth promised, already kicking herself for pushing too fast. From the plastic pink tea set scattered along the floor and the baby doll stroller in the entryway, Violet had a great deal to lose. No way Lisbeth was getting the story without a softer touch.
“Adorable,” Lisbeth said, heading up the main hallway and admiring a framed family photo of a little white girl running through a sprinkler, her mouth open with her tongue licking the water.
Violet barely responded.
Lisbeth turned. Every parent likes to talk about their kids.
Halfway up the main hallway, Lisbeth scanned the rest of the family photos along the wall. The girl in the sprinkler. Pictured again with a redheaded woman at the beach. And again with the redhead at a pumpkin patch.
As Lisbeth scanned all the photos, she noticed that every shot had white people in it. Indeed, not one—not a single one—had anyone who was black.
Lisbeth underestimated her. Violet—or whatever her name was—wasn’t some dumb novice.
“This isn’t your house, is it?” Lisbeth asked.
Violet stopped in the small, cluttered kitchen. A child-size plastic Cinderella table sat next to a full-size faux-wood one. Half a dozen photos cluttered the refrigerator door. Again, everyone was white.
“And your name’s not Debbie Schopf, is it?” Lisbeth added.
“Leave Debbie out of this—”
“Violet, if she’s your friend . . .”
“She’s just doing me a favor.”
“Violet . . .”
“Please don’t drag her in— Oh, God,” Violet said, shielding her eyes with her hand. It was the first time Lisbeth got a look at the thin gold wedding band on Violet’s ring finger. The one detail Lisbeth believed.
“Listen,” Lisbeth said, touching Violet’s shoulder. “You listening? I’m not here to catch you or trap you or drag your friends in. I swear. I just need to know if what you said about Dreidel—”
“I didn’t make it up.”
“No one thinks you did.”
“You just said my name wouldn’t be used. You told me that.”
“And I stand by it, Violet,” Lisbeth said, knowing the fake name put her at ease. “No one knows I’m here. Not my editor, not my colleagues, nobody. But let’s remember: You invited me here for a reason. What Dreidel did to you . . . when he raised his hand—”
“He didn’t raise his hand! He put his fist in my face, then gashed me with the mirror!” Violet erupted, her fear quickly smothered by rage. “That bastard hurt me so bad I had to tell my mother I was in a car accident! She believed it too—after I kicked my headlight in to prove it! But when I saw him in the paper . . . If he thinks I’m just gonna keep it all quiet while he holds himself out there as State Senator Boy Scout . . . Oh, no, no,
no
!”
“I hear you, Violet—I do. But you need to understand, I can’t do anything, I can’t even help you, until I verify it. Now you said you had proof. Are they photos or—?”
“Photos? Even when he’s dumb, Dreidel’s not that stupid.” Leaving the kitchen, Violet headed into the family room, where beige vertical blinds kept the last bits of sun from peeking through the sliding glass doors. Taking a moment to calm down, she put her five fingertips against the center of her chest.
“Y’okay?” Lisbeth asked.
“Yeah, just—just hating the past a little, know what I mean?”
“You kidding? I even hate the present.”
It was an easy joke, but exactly what Violet needed to catch her breath. “When we first—y’know, when we started,” she said, kneeling down and fishing under the L-shaped flower-print sofa, “I wasn’t even allowed to ask him about work. But these White House boys . . . they’re no different than the money boys in Palm Beach or Miami or anywhere . . . all egomaniacs love to talk about themselves,” she added as she tugged a small pile of paperwork from under the sofa. Bound by a thick rubber band, it looked like a stack of catalogs and mail. As Violet whipped off the rubber band, the pile fanned out across the cream-colored Formica coffee table.
“President Manning’s Remarks for APEC Summit.
Signed program from the Moroccan king’s funeral . . .” Skimming through the pile, Violet rattled them off one by one. “Look at this—personal business card of the owner of the Miami Dolphins with his direct dial and cell numbers handwritten on the back, along with a note that says
Mr. President, Let’s play golf.
Asshole.”
“I don’t understand. Dreidel left this stuff here?”
“Left it? He gave it to me.
Proudly
gave it to me. I don’t know, it was his pathetic way of proving he was actually by the President’s side. Every time he visited, I’d get another piece from the presidential junk drawer: Manning’s handwritten lunch orders, scorecards from when he played bridge, military coins, crossword puzzles, luggage tags—”
“What’d you say?”
“Luggage tags?”
“Crossword puzzles,” Lisbeth repeated as she sat next to Violet on the couch and leaned toward the pile on the coffee table.
“Oh, I definitely got one,” Violet replied, digging through the stack. “Manning was a nut at those. Dreidel said he could do a full puzzle while chatting on the phone with— Ah, here we go,” she added, pulling an old folded-up newspaper from the stack.
When Violet handed it over, Lisbeth’s arms, legs, and whole body went cold as she finally got a look at the puzzle . . . and the President’s handwritten answers . . . and the jumble of initials scribbled in the left-hand margin.
Her hands were shaking. She read it, then reread it to be sure.
I don’t believe it. How could we be so—?
“What?” Violet asked, clearly confused. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing . . . just— I can reach you at this number, yes?” As Violet nodded, Lisbeth copied the phone number that was handwritten on the base of the phone. Standing from her seat, she continued to clutch the crossword in her hand. “Listen, can I make a copy of this? I’ll bring it right back as soon as I’m done.”
“Sure, but—I don’t get it. What’d you find, Dreidel’s handwriting?”
“No,” Lisbeth said, sprinting for the door, flipping open her cell phone, and already dialing Wes’s number. “Something far better than that.”
S
ilent for almost twenty-five minutes, Rogo was hunched over the archival box in his lap as his fingertips walked through each page of the open file. “Who d’ya think the mom is?” he finally asked as the sun faded through the nearby window.
“Of Boyle’s kid?” Dreidel replied, picking through his own box. “I’ve got no idea.”
“You think it was someone big?”
“Define
big.
”
“I don’t know—he could’ve been sleeping with anyone: a senior staffer . . . some intern . . . the First Lady—”
“First Lady? You joking? You think we wouldn’t notice if Mrs. Manning—
while in the White House
—started vomiting, gaining weight, and suddenly seeing a doctor—not to mention if she showed up one day with a kid that looked like Boyle?”
“Maybe she didn’t have the kid. It could’ve been—”
“‘Paternity issue’ means the kid was born,” Dreidel insisted, crossing to the other side of the table and picking up a new box. “It would’ve said
ABT
if they thought there was an abortion. And even if that weren’t the case—the First Lady? Please . . . when it came time to leave the White House, she was more upset than the President himself. No way she’d put any of that at risk for some dumb fling with Boyle.”
“I’m just saying, it could’ve been anyone,” Rogo said, nearly halfway through the file box as he reached a thick brown accordion folder that held two framed photos. Pulling out the silver frame in front, he squinted down at the family shot of Boyle with his wife and daughter.
Posed in front of a waterfall, Boyle and his wife playfully hugged their sixteen-year-old daughter, Lydia, who, at the center of the photograph, was in mid-scream/mid-laugh as the ice-cold waterfall soaked her back. Laughing right along with her, Boyle had his mouth wide open, and despite his thick mustache, it was clear that Lydia had her father’s smile. A huge, toothy grin. Rogo couldn’t take his eyes off it. Just one big happy—
“It’s just a photo,” Dreidel interrupted.
“Wha?” Rogo asked, looking over his shoulder.
Behind him, Dreidel stared down at the framed shot of the Boyles at the waterfall. “That’s it—just a photo,” he warned. “Believe me, even though they’re smiling, doesn’t mean they’re happy.”
Rogo looked down at the photo, then back to Dreidel, whose lips were pressed together. Rogo knew that look. He saw it every day on his speeding ticket clients. We all know our own sins.
“So the mom from Boyle’s paternity problem . . .” Rogo began.
“. . . could be anyone,” Dreidel agreed, happy to be back on track. “Though knowing Boyle, I bet it’s someone we’ve never even heard of.”
“What makes you say that?” Rogo asked.
“I don’t know—it’s just . . . when we were in the White House, that’s the way Boyle was. As Manning’s oldest friend, he was never really part of the staff. He was more—he was
here
,” Dreidel said, holding his left hand palm-down at eye level. “And he thought the rest of us were
here
,” he added, slapping his right palm against the worktable.
“That’s the benefit of being First Friend.”
“But that’s the thing—I know he kinda got sainthood when he was shot, but from where I was standing on the inside, Boyle spent plenty of days in the doghouse.”
“Maybe that’s when Manning found out about the kid.”
For the second time, Dreidel was silent.
Rogo didn’t say a word. Unloading the second picture from his own box, he propped open the back leg of the black matte picture frame and stood it up on the worktable. Inside was a close-up photo of Boyle and his wife, the apples of their cheeks pressed together as they smiled for the camera. From the bushiness of his mustache and the thickness of his hairline, the photo was an old one. Two people in love.
“What else you got in there besides photos?” Dreidel asked, turning the box slightly and reading the word
Misc.
on the main label.
“Mostly desk stuff,” Rogo said as he emptied the box, pulling out a hardcover book about the history of genocide, a softcover about the legacy of the Irish, and a rubber-banded preview copy of a highly critical book called
The Manning Myth.
“I remember when that came out,” Dreidel said. “Pompous ass never even called us to fact-check.”
“I just can’t believe they keep all this crap,” Rogo said as he pulled out a decade-old parking pass for the Kennedy Center.
“To you, it’s crap—to the library, it’s history.”
“Let me tell you something—even to the library, this crap is crap,” Rogo said, unloading a small stack of taxi receipts, a scrap of paper with handwritten directions to the Arena Stage, a blank RSVP card to someone’s wedding, a finger-paint drawing with the words
Uncle Ron
neatly printed on top, and a small spiral notebook with the Washington Redskins football logo on the front.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa—what’re you doing?” Dreidel interrupted.
“What,
this
?” Rogo asked, pointing to the finger-paint drawing.
“That,”
Dreidel insisted as he grabbed the spiral notebook with the football logo.
“I don’t get it—whattya need a football schedule for?”
“This isn’t a schedule.” Opening the book, Dreidel turned it toward Rogo, revealing a daily calendar for the first week of January. “It’s Boyle’s datebook.”
Rogo’s eyebrows rose as he palmed the top of his buzzed head. “So we can see all his meetings . . .”
“Exactly,” Dreidel said, already skimming through it. “Meetings, dinners, everything—and most particularly what he was up to on the night of May 27th.”
M
r. President?” I call out as I open the front door.
No one answers.
“Sir, it’s Wes—are you there?” I ask again, even though I know the answer. If he weren’t here, the Secret Service wouldn’t be outside. But after all our years together, I’m always careful to know my place. It’s one thing to walk into his office. It’s quite another to step into his home.
“Back here,” a man’s voice calls out, ricocheting down the long center hallway that leads to the living room. I pause a moment, unable to place the voice—polished, with a hint of British accent—but quickly step inside and shut the door. It was hard enough making the decision to come here. Even if he’s got guests, I’m not turning back now.
Still trying to identify the voice, I head for the hallway and steal a glance at the poster-sized, framed black-and-white photograph that sits above the antique credenza and the vase of fresh flowers on my right. The photo is Manning’s favorite: a panoramic view of his desk in the Oval Office, taken by a photographer who literally put the camera in the President’s chair and hit the shutter.
The result is an exact re-creation of Manning’s old view from behind the most powerful desk in the world: the family photos of his wife, the pen left for him by the previous President, a personal note written by his son, a small gold plaque with the John Lennon quote “A working class hero is something to be,” and a shot of Manning sitting with his mom on the day he arrived at the White House—his first official meeting in the Oval. On the left of the desk, Manning’s phone looms as large as a shoebox, the camera so close you can read the five typed names on his speed dial:
Lenore
(his wife),
Arlen
(the V.P.),
Carl
(national security adviser),
Warren
(chief of staff), and
Wes.
Me.
With the push of a button, we’d all come running. Eight years later, I haven’t changed. Until now.
Plowing through the hallway, I head into the formal living room, where, at the center of the Tibetan rug, Manning is standing on a small stool while a fair-skinned man with messy blond hair that barely covers his large forehead flits around him like a tailor working on his suit.
“Please, Mr. President, I just need you still,” he pleads in what I now realize is a genteel South African accent.
